


secret moments in a crowded room

by chasingforeverandaday



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Fight for your Love, Flirting, Fluff, Marriage Proposal, Oral Sex, Secret Relationship, Smut, Snark, all the Starks make cameos, as does Robert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21754555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasingforeverandaday/pseuds/chasingforeverandaday
Summary: Under the steady beat of a Northern drum, Lady Arya Stark and Lord Gendry Baratheon reunite after a tumultuous year apart. And nothing, not the simpering ladies or the stuffy lords, can stop the she-wolf from bringing down her prey.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Comments: 79
Kudos: 451
Collections: Gendrya Gift Exchange 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [canicanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canicanor/gifts), [yanak324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yanak324/gifts).



> Gendrya Gift Exchange time! (part the first)
> 
> Prompt: Winter Solstice  
> House Stark holds a grand feast to mark the Winter Solstice. Representatives from the great houses of Westeros come to Winterfell to celebrate, including the newly legitimized son of King Robert Baratheon, who suddenly finds himself the most eligible bachelor in the Seven Kingdoms.
> 
> This prompt totally got away from me in the best way, I hope you enjoy it canicanor!
> 
> Title is from "Dress" by Taylor Swift, because that song was running through my mind while writing at least half of this.

_He truly was the most obstinate, surly man she’d ever met_ , Arya thinks, watching the King’s grim faced son silently stomp his way through the fourth dance with another simpering girl on his arm. The Gendry she’d known back in King’s Landing wouldn’t have even been out on the dance floor, but it seemed their year apart had changed more than just his last name. He was still ridiculously handsome, his blue eyes and shining black hair catching her gaze no matter how hard she tried to ignore the stirring in her belly every time he turned in her direction. But he stood taller, straighter, with the weight of unacknowledged bastardy lifted from his shoulders. 

King Robert kept throwing noblewoman after noblewoman in his path, his candidacy as a prime marriage target well known among all the ladies here for the Winter Solstice celebrations being held by House Stark. Amusingly enough, he kept shooing his son away from the Stark table whenever Gendry made his way towards her, smoldering stare doing nothing to calm the maddening heat blazing through her veins. Arya assumed the King was trying to find him a suitable wife, and neither Sansa, who’d nearly married Joffrey until the nasty business that had sent him off to the Wall, nor Arya, wild and uncontrollable as she was rumored to be, could be considered acceptable options.

Of course, Arya knew something the rest of those women didn’t yet realize, something his wine-soaked father didn’t understand: he had been hers for years now, long before the king made any claim on him. Arya had claimed him as hers in the back rooms of his dirty little forge, in the bed that they’d made theirs for months before the Starks’ abrupt departure for the North. His strong, steel-hardened body would be warming her furs tonight, and for however long the storm howling outside happened to last, maybe even longer if he finally managed to persuade her around to the idea of marriage sooner rather than later. Just thinking about all the things they could get up to once they were alone again caused her cheeks to flush dangerously as she shifted in her seat to alleviate the ache building in her cunt.

A curious noise from her brother ripped Arya’s stare away from her stubborn bull, blinking as innocently as she could manage despite the images running through her brain. Robb smiled lightly as he prompted her, bringing her attention back to the conversation they’d been having with Lord Manderly, some discussion involving the trade with Essos, something she’d normally be quite happy to give her opinion on, but tonight her focus was decidedly elsewhere.

She drifted off into her own world again, a world comprised of a candlelit forge, the rough bedding of a blacksmith’s bed in Kings Landing, and the expanses of sooty skin she adored so. But then Arya saw yet another heiress lean into his arm, the arm that belonged around her waist, her shoulders, holding her off the ground; one of the arms she dreamed were holding her close every night, and she breaks.

The current song was coming to an end and she was tired of these games, so gathering her skirts carefully, Lady Arya Stark makes her excuses as she stands from her seat at the high table for the first time all night and descends among the mass of humanity in the middle of the Great Hall. Gendry Baratheon, newly legitimized heir to the Stormlands, swallows hard, his gaze locked on the woman making her way gracefully through a pair of Umbers to stand in front of him. Her dress was the traditional grey of the Starks, but rather than the white accents her sister chose, or the Tully blue and red of her mother, she’d opted to sew designs of the deepest coal, direwolves chasing stags and bulls all along her hems and through the many folds of her skirt. It was a claim, just as the slashes adorning his doublet that mimicked a she-wolf’s claws marked him as hers. 

Halting just a step too close for propriety and just a step too far away for his long awakened ardor, she holds a hand out to him, eyebrow raised in question as the Northern musicians begin to pound out a steady, heady rhythm. Without words, Gendry pulls her firmly against his body, blatantly ignoring every dance master’s instructions on how to hold a lady. Her breasts are pressed to his chest and her skirts swirl around their legs as he twirls her into the raucous dance, avoiding the harsh gazes of both their fathers. 

Lost in the thumping of the drums, she is every tantalizing fantasy he’s ever had, writhing against him with each movement, fingers fluttering along his chest, pulse thrumming in her long, pale throat. When Arya, dazzling, charming, bewitching Arya brushes a mischievous hand to his burgeoning erection, his lust for her has had enough teasing and he encircles her with his arms, pinning her to him as he maneuvers them towards a shadowy corner. 

Once out of the head table’s view, Gendry backs her up to the wall, hungrily capturing her mouth as he glides a hand up her side to cover one of her heaving breasts. Arya mewls into the kiss, hands raking down his scalp as he pinches her nipple, wrenching herself away to gasp when he grinds his hardness into her stomach, desire pooling in the air around them. Quickly glancing at their surroundings, she motions to the door off to their right, almost hidden in the flickering candlelight.

Having escaped the crush of the Great Hall, Arya pulls him by the hand, weaving their way deeper through the empty halls of Winterfell, until they arrive in the family quarters. Gendry pauses as she opens her bedroom door, a small part of him still unsure that she truly wants him, no matter how many times she invites him to bed. Eyes rolling heavenwards, she grasps the front of his doublet, yanking him into the privacy of her room, closing the door firmly behind them before moving to light the fire.

“Arya, I…” All his pretty words are lost as he stands transfixed, focused entirely on the woman in front of him as she slowly pulls each lace out of her dress while gravity drags it down her shoulders, revealing more and more of her softly glowing skin. Arya steps closer as the material finally drops and pools at her feet, naked as the day she was born. Running her cool hands up under his shirt, she stands on her tiptoes to kiss him sweetly, an aching, tender kind of affection so different from the feverish craving that overtook them on the dance floor.

Pulling the layers from his skin until he is as bare chested as she, Arya nuzzles at his neck, whispers, “Shhhhhh, don’t talk.” Sucks his earlobe between her lips. “Don’t think.” Nips along his jaw to brush her mouth against his. “Just feel.” 

He allows her to control the kiss, lets her plunder and explore every corner of his body with excruciating slowness as he walks her backwards inch by inch. Breaking apart, he lifts her effortlessly onto her desk, sweeping the few papers out of his way as he sets her down. Arya’s hands loop around his head to draw him back down, but he resists, grinning at her adorable pout. 

“Are you planning on continuing any time soon, Gendry, or do I need to handle this on my own?” And truly, sometimes she just made it too easy to tease her.

“As you wish, m’lady.” Before she can protest the title as he knows she will, he sinks to his knees and hauls her center to devouring lips, her whimpering cries echoing in the quiet of their sanctuary. One of his hands squeezes her hip in warning at the noise, his stare questioning as he raises an eyebrow. Biting down on her lip, she tilts her head in defiance as her legs loop over his shoulders, heels digging into his back in an effort to draw Gendry ever so slightly closer. Huffing a laugh into the skin of her thighs, he lets himself be directed as she pleases, relearning the spots he had mapped so perfectly before they parted. 

When his finger sinks in deep, crooks just so to the place she’d never been able to reach on her own, Arya moans, a low keen lost in the palm she’d pressed over her mouth. Her fingers dig deep in his back, a pain so acute and perfect in the way that only she can give. Gendry sucks at her clit, lightly scrapes his teeth and the stubble of his beard along her sensitive skin, pinches and strokes and does everything in his power to drive her mad. And she falls into the haze of pleasure, another drawn out moan clawing its way out of her chest as she shudders, clutching for the sanity he’s drained from her mind. 

Opening her eyes, she pulls him back to her, kissing him desperately as she tries to tear at his laces. When Gendry laughs at her clumsy fingers, she glares, reminding him that, “This will work far better once you’re naked, stupid.” That’s enough for him to bat away her hands and strip himself bare, falling back into her gravity as he presses skin to skin with his lover after months with nothing but memories to warm him at night. Leaning in to drop his forehead to hers, he takes a moment to breathe and just let himself enjoy this closeness with Arya. 

Sinking into her with aching slowness until he’s enveloped in heat, he pauses, letting them both readjust to the sensation of being together after so long spent apart. His hands span her back, the tight grasp at her shoulders and her waist ensuring that she feels nothing but the all consuming love she can only find in his arms. When he moves, Arya brings his lips to hers once more, a wildness to her kiss as she pants into his mouth. Twining her legs around his waist, she ruts in time with his thrusts, burning the sensation of her touch into his very being as her fingers dance over the muscles of his back. 

It doesn’t take long for the passion to overwhelm him, he’s been wound tight ever since she walked into the Great Hall earlier. Reaching down, he tries to bring her with him, tries so hard to last as long as he can, but she tilts his head back to her, a gentle look on her face. “Let go Gendry, just let go.” And so he yields, succumbs to the earnest passion in her gaze and the grinding press of her hips, awash in bliss as he stutters, spending himself in her warmth.

She mumbles into his chest once they’ve settled on the bed, and he has to brush her hair back and ask her to repeat herself in hear whatever it was she said. Arya blushes, the red staining her cheeks a ridiculous juxtaposition to her self-assured nakedness in front of him. “I said, Gods, I’ve missed you, you stupid man.”

And Gendry smiles, as he’s been yearning for those words since he first rode into Winterfell’s yard. “I can’t decide if that’s sweet or if you just missed my cock.”

She snorts, drawing patterns in his chest hair. “Well obviously the correct answer is both.”

“Obviously.”

Arya adjusts her position once more, molding herself to his side, head resting on his shoulder. She looks up at him, gray eyes wide and serious as she murmurs, “I don’t want you to leave again.”

“I don’t want to leave you either, but we both know it’s not that simple. I’m not just a blacksmith anymore.” Life would be so very different if he was, but his lordship has let him come to her here, in her home, so he will accept whatever this life has in store.

“No, you’re a bloody lord now aren’t you…” Arya trails off, studying his face intently, seemingly searching for something he doesn’t know how to show her. Whatever it was, she apparently finds it, as Arya eases, dropping a tender kiss against his heart as his world contracts until he sees nothing but her. “Marriage might not be the end of me, not if it was with you.” 

Gendry can barely feel the grin stretching across his face as he drags her upwards, disbelief coursing through his veins as he kisses Arya Stark, the woman he loves, the woman who, unless he grossly misunderstood, just said she would marry him. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A proposal is made under most unusual circumstances, an official engagement is announced, and the appropriate amounts of chaos and hilarity ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Yana's birthday, so I finished the continuation of this story that she was (lovingly) bugging me about a month or so ago. Enjoy your porn and feels!

Waking up with her own personal furnace was a feeling Arya had missed. And it was far more comfortable here in Winterfell than the few times it had happened in the smothering humidity of King’s Landing. Glancing through her lashes, she can see the breaking light of dawn begin to make its way into her room, signaling an unfortunate end to this lovely little interlude. But before she can let her disappointment show, the arm around her waist tightens as a pair of lips caress the curve of her neck. 

She can feel Gendry smiling against her skin, can feel the warmth that seems to follow him everywhere he goes sink into her bones. The arm she is laying on moves, hand reaching up to brush more hair from her face. A gentle kiss just under her hairline brings a smile to her face as she interlaces their fingers. 

Gendry sounds not entirely awake, or perhaps not entirely believing that he is, the lovely baritone rumbling in his chest gravelly when he first speaks. “Forgive me if I’m wrong, but did you agree to marry me last night?”

Smirking, she resolutely keeps her eyes fixed on the wall, not daring to let him see her face as she reminds him, “Technically speaking, I hypothetically agreed to marry you.” He nips her earlobe and she has to pause, lest a moan escape rather than her carefully crafted words. “Of courses, that shall only occur should you ask me, which you have not done.” A huff of breath hits her neck as he laughs a bit, making her shiver. 

“Then it appears I must fix that most grievous error.” And everything in his voice promises to make amends for the slight ten times over in the most pleasurable way possible.

Still determined not to show how easily he affects her, though of course he knows, she tries to sound casual, ignoring the flutter in her stomach as his hands roam and lips continue to tease. “Mmmm, it appears you, _ohhh_ , must do that.” He laves at the bite on her neck, a mark for the whole world to see just who she belongs with. It’s surprisingly hot, the notion that now they can claim each other in public (though probably not precisely in the same manner). 

He nips her again, lower now as she turns towards him and abandons all pretense. Head tilting down, she catches his heated blue eyes with her own, desire and mischief sparkling up at her. Leaning in, he kisses her without hurry, as if they have all the time in the world to luxuriate in this emotion, in this moment. 

And she supposes they do, not that she has the patience for it.

When she tugs on the inky black strands in her grasp, he chuckles into her mouth, letting her take control, though he covers her body with his much larger frame. Underneath him, so entangled she can’t bother to figure out where she starts and he begins, she feels safe. She feels loved. When he breaks the kiss, she chases after him, pouting when he doesn’t let her, just grins down at her, so visibly happy cannot help but mirror the expression.

“Thought I was supposed to be asking you something.” And he is just that bloody stubborn, to be so caught up in his proposal that he’s ignoring her much more enjoyable alternative. Linking her legs behind his back, she raises an eyebrow.

“Ask me later, you already know what my answer is.”

“Yes dear.”

Moving farther down her body, he sucks a leisurely path to her tits, finally taking a nipple in his mouth. “Oh gods Gendry, do that again.” Hands deep in his shaggy hair, she arches into the sensation as it courses straight to her cunt. His fingers stroke her gently, coaxing around her lower lips, barely touching where she desperately needs him. But it’s enough because it is him and she has gone without him for so long, her own hands can never compare to the way he makes her feel, the way a simple meeting of hands can set her aflame because they are his. She’s teetering at the edge of wonder when he pinches her clit just right, a scream building in her throat-

And then it’s gone, and his weight lifts away, the bed resettling in his absence. Confused, panting, she blindly reaches for him, but finds nothing but blankets. Opening an eye, she blearily sees him across the room, still naked as a babe, dick bobbing in the cold air as he quickly rummages through the pile of their discarded clothes. 

Assuming he must have heard someone coming while she was too distracted to care, she almost falls out of bed in her haste to find a suitable robe and place for him to hide.

Because as happy as she is to finally call him hers and hers alone, they do not need the scandal of being found naked together, her bedsheets strewn apart so there is no question of what occurred. Last night she cared for little more than getting him alone, but here in the light of day she just wants to marry him, no societal obstacles in sight because they were too reckless in their affections. 

But then his voice, not exactly alarmed so much as vaguely annoyed, stops her.

“What, no, get back in bed!” He’s stopped searching through what she now recognizes as his pants from last night, one fist curled as he looks at her over his shoulder. Freezing in place, she clutches the blankets to her chest, so unsure all of sudden that she doesn’t know what to do with herself.

“Gendry, what are you…” she trails off, staring as he strides back to the bed and kneels down in front of her, taking one of her hands in his. In the other, he holds a ring, simple and silver. None of the extravagant gold and enormous gemstones that so many highborn women treasure. There are two stones set in the intricately etched metal, a smoky gray and a clear blue. 

Involuntarily, she lets the sheet slip down as she shakily covers her mouth. Gendry grins up at her awestruck silence from the floor, before letting a soft and serious expression overtake his face. “Arya Stark. I love you, more than I can ever say. I’m a smith, not a poet, you know that. It’s why I made you this ring, why there’s a set of throwing knives in my trunk just for you. I want to spend the rest of my life showing you how much you mean to me, one blade at a time. And so I would very much like to marry you, if you’ll have me?”

She never expected to cry from happiness when she finally agreed to wed. Despair, anger, fear; all of those she could see happening one day. Never utter joy. Never the soul deep contentment of knowing she could spend every one of her days with the man she loved, the man she thought she would never be able to have in more than secret moments and stolen hours. But these are the happiest tears she’s ever shed.

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you, you idiot!” Pulling with their joined hands, she hauls him back on top of her, collapsing onto the bed. Her giddy giggling means she cannot compose herself enough to kiss him deeply, only cover his face in affectionate pecks as she repeats her “Yes!” over and over, until they can both believe it is true.

Catching their breath, her forehead is pressed to his as Gendry shakily fits the ring to her finger. Bringing it closer, she runs her fingers over the tiny designs that decorate her new jewelry. If she squints, there is a wolf and a bull on the back, so tiny and personal that no one would know what they mean to her except the man in her bed.

“You made me a ring.” And it’s a bit embarrassing how soft her voice is, how tiny she sounds as she looks up at him in wonder. This isn’t like anything she’d ever seen him make, so very different from the swords and shields that he could hammer out with ease. This little ring cost him far more time and effort, and he made it, just for her.

“Aye, I actually finished it more than a year ago, before you left. At the time I never thought you’d actually be able to wear it, but I wanted to have something of you when…” Now he is the one turning red, his eyes darting away from hers as he strokes over her knuckles. “It was after that first night you stayed, and we had breakfast together and it just felt like I finally had a home. That’s when I knew.” 

“That you loved me?” Holding his cheeks with both hands, she catches his gaze with hers, sure he can see the wonder in her face, that anyone could feel this way for her.

He kisses her palm gently as he corrects, “That I wanted to marry you. I knew I loved you since the day you took it upon yourself to test out all the daggers you could find in my forge.” Suddenly the mischief is back as one of his hands runs down to her arse and quickly loops her left leg around his waist. “And then told me to fuck you on my anvil.”

As the memory floods back into her mind, her latent arousal makes itself known once more. Pushing her hips into his, Arya murmurs, “That was a good day.”

“It was a bloody fantastic day.” Nose nudging hers, Gendry captures her lips in a deep, soul consuming kiss. She loses herself in him and all the emotions only he can provoke in her, this fiery love like nothing she’s ever experienced. Against her mouth, he tells her, “I think this day might be even better.”

And she really must agree. Especially as he makes love to her for hours, caught up in the joy and excitement of this promise that will hold them together forever.

* * *

“Gendry and I are betrothed.” In the sudden silence that follows her abrupt announcement, Arya grabs for his hand, squeezing it tightly as she straightens her back as if marching into battle. “We would like to be married here in the Godswood before the King’s retinue heads south. Ideally we might stay behind for a few months and then head on to Storm’s End, since he is Renly’s heir.” Arya runs out of breath, her words all running together at the end of her speech. 

Looking around, he takes in the reactions of the entire Stark clan.

Ned is resigned, fingers already rubbing at his furrowed brow, seeing as he was honestly probably expecting this at some point after he had come to see Gendry the day before. Their short visit had involved a frank discussion of the fact that Ned had in fact known where Arya disappeared to so often down in the capital, and while he did not approve of the nature of their relationship at the time, he had done little to stop what little happiness he could give his wild daughter in a city she hated. He’d cautioned Gendry not to rush into anything, so as to give some semblance of propriety, but probably knew that Arya would do exactly as she wished.

Catelyn Stark, a woman he’d only seen in passing last night, seemed beside herself as she leans heavily back in her chair. The mere idea of Arya marrying willingly, let alone enthusiastically, appears to have rendered her speechless, though her lips are moving and keep falling open.

Robb looks dumbstruck, his wife giggling beside him as food dribbles out of the corner of his mouth. On his other side Theon is choking on his breakfast, coughing as his face turns red. Sansa thumps his back, her face contemplative as she ignores him completely to stare directly at Arya, apparently trying to have one of those wordless conversations all women seemed to be fluent in from birth. Whatever she found seemed to be sufficient, because then she began to clap and laugh at her sister’s blushing cheeks. 

Bran is solemnly staring at the two of them, long enough that Gendry starts to grow nervous, but then he winks and smiles before turning back to his food. Rickon has barely even moved from his place on the floor next to Shaggy, but soon glares at Gendry in a way that promises death but his best friend’s claws should any harm come to his big sister.

Jon somehow looks simultaneously pained and incredibly smug, waggling his fingers at each of his siblings with glee. One by one, Robb, Theon, and Sansa each grumble and pull coins out of their respective pockets, until a sizable pile has grown in Jon’s hand. He is the first to stand and offer his congratulations, scooping Arya up in a bearhug and clapping Gendry hard on the back. 

Whispering, he cannot help but ask Jon about the won bet. “After you two disappeared, which by the way you owe us for distracting all of the parents enough that they didn’t notice right away. Anyways, after your little display on the dancefloor Theon bet you’d propose and Arya would stab you with Needle, no matter how much she fancied you. Robb thought she’d probably just throw something at you, but Sansa,” Jon paused to chuckle, “for gods know what reason, thought she’d just politely decline like a lady.”

“Oh, and you somehow knew she’d say yes?”

“Of course I did, Arya’s my best friend.”

“How? I wasn’t sure she’d say yes until she did.”

“I’m the only one who saw her face when she saw you riding into Winterfell. She loves you, and Arya doesn’t give up the people she loves.”

Stunned, Gendry can’t do much more than bring Jon back in for a hug and smile happily at Arya over his shoulder as she looks at them strangely. The rest of the family follow one by one, some more exuberant than others, but all genuine nonetheless. 

Of course, that is when the stag in the room makes his presence known.

“BOY! What did I tell you?” King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, roars through the family solar from his place at the head of the table. Thunder ringing in his ears, Gendry regards the man who fathered him calmly, hand still tight in Arya’s.

“I believe you told me to leave the Stark girls alone, your grace, when I was looking for a bride.” His betrothed turns to him in confusion, but he keeps his face stony as he stares down the king, unwilling to let the man see him quake in his boots.

“I told you to leave the Stark girls alone! After what happened with Joffrey and that one,” he dismissively waves a hand at Sansa, “I told Ned I’d not let another of my kin bother either of his girls. On that I was clear.”

Before Gendry can even open his mouth, a warm hand falls on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. Ned Stark’s flinty eyes regard his oldest friend, mouth a hard line. “Robert.”

But the king would not be stopped in his anger, wouldn’t listen to reason. “I pulled you out of that gutter boy, and I can throw you back in! I told you to find any woman, any bloody noble woman to marry, except those named Stark.” Veins bulging in his neck, Robert points a stubby finger in his direction, “So you think you can come in here and tell me you’re marrying her, you had best kiss your name goodbye!”

Somewhere in the king’s rage, Gendry realized he had clutched Arya to his side, fingers digging into her arm as he held her close, not daring to let anyone rip her away. She in turn was glaring at Robert as best she could, though the man took no notice of anyone but himself.

“I love her, and I will marry her.” He keeps his voice steady and firm as he feels Arya squeeze his hand again, just the pulse of encouragement he needs to square his shoulders and face his father head on. 

“You love her? You met her yesterday boy!” His laughter is harsh, as dry and vicious as the sandstorms of the Dorne. “Love is myth, love means nothing, not for us. Oh, I once felt it more than anything, but now she’s gone, and all that is let of me is this.” Gesturing down at himself, he continued, “Love ruins you, won’t let you sleep but for dreams of a woman long dead, won’t let you even think of loving another without seeing her face. I still see her everywhere, my Lyanna…” Lost in the past, the king lost focus on his son in front of him, now looking at the woman tucked into his chest, the very image of the one he had lost.

“Robert.” Somehow, it is Ned Stark’s quiet tone that reaches through the raging memories to return the king to the present. Holding up a hand, Ned stopped whatever was going to spew from Robert’s mouth before opening his own. “They met months before we left King’s Landing last year. He was a weaponsmith, and they met when she snuck out of court to have her sword reforged when it became too small. And then she kept going back, talking to him. There’s a chest full of weapons in Arya’s room that he made her or fixed while we were there, she must have made her way to his shop at least once a week.”

There is a slight panic dawning on Arya’s face as she recognizes just how close to their truth that tale is, only really editing out the parts too scandalous to ever mention, like how they’d shared a bed for months. He catches her gaze as subtly as he can and shakes his head minutely, a silent promise to share what he knows later, though he’s sure there is a long talk with Ned Stark in both of their futures. 

The king was now enraptured, looking between his old friend and the son he’d only recently found. “And you let your daughter associate with a bastard blacksmith?”

“You mean, your son, the blacksmith who I’d only received glowing reports of his conduct when I asked around? The man who put a smile on Arya’s face the likes of which I hadn’t seen since we left Winterfell? Who I knew was your blood long before Arya ever set eyes on him?” Ned arched an eyebrow in a gesture so like his daughter, Gendry can barely suppress his smile. “Why did you think I brought his name forward as my first choice when you asked me which of your bastards you should legitimize for Renly? He may not have the same noble blood that Edric does, but he’s twice the man who has worked for everything he’s earned.” Turning his steely eyes to Gendry, Ned finishes, “And he’ll make my daughter happy.” 

Never has Gendry seen the king so befuddled, so out of sorts as he does now that the wolf has so firmly put him in his place without even raising his voice. And he hopes that the rest of Arya’s family will be just as supportive after hearing this version of their story. Letting out a breath, he loosens his grip on Arya’s waist a bit, still holding her hand but no longer holding on for dear life. Surveying the room, he sees confusion and acceptance, but luckily no anger directed his way for the story Ned has laid out. Looking to the king, he sees that the man has apparently made up his mind as he raises the tankard in his hand.

“Well, fuck. Looks like we will be getting that wedding after all, won’t we Ned?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (No, Jon is not at the Wall, and yes, Theon is still at Winterfell) (this is my happy AU where nothing bad happens to the Stark fam, shhhh)


End file.
